"In Norman times Turgotus and

Good Chaucer did excel;

Then Stowe, the Bristol Carmelite,

Did bear away the bell.

"Now Rowley, in these murky days,

Sends out his shining lights,

And Turgotus and Chaucer live

In every line he writes."

The next is the Tournament, an interlude. Sir Simon de Burton, its hero,

is supposed to have been the first founder, in accomplishment of a vow

made on the occasion, of a church dedicated to _Our Lady_, in the place

where the church of St Mary Redcliff now stands. There is life and force

in the details of this tourney; and the songs of the minstrel are good,

especially the first, which is a gallant hunting stave in honour of

William the Red King, who hunts the stag, the wolf, and "the _lion_

brought from sultry lands." The sentiment conveyed in the burden of this

spirited chorus sounds oddly considerate, as the command issued by

William Rufus:--

"Go, rouse the lion from his hidden den,

Let thy darts drink the blood of any thing but men."

To the paternity of the next in order--the Bristol Tragedy, or Death of

Sir Charles Baldwin--Chatterton confessed; and such an admission might

have satisfied any one but Dean Milles. The language is modern--the

measure flowing without interruption; and, though the orthography

affects to be antiquated, there is but one word (bataunt) in the whole

series of quatrains, ninety-eight in number, that would embarrass any

reader in his teens; though a boy that could generate such a poem as

that, might well be believed the father of other giants whom he chose to

disown. It is a masterpiece in its kind, almost unexceptionable in all

its parts. The subject is supposed to have been suggested by the fate of

Sir Baldwin Fulford, a zealous Lancastrian, beheaded at Bristol in 1461,

the first year of the reign of Edward IV., who, it is believed, was

actually present at the execution.

Now comes Ella, a tragical interlude, or discoursing tragedy, by Thomas

Rowley, prefaced by two letters to Master Canning, and an introduction.

In the first letter, among various sarcasms on the age, is one,

complaining that

"In holy priest appears the baron's pride."

A proposition, we fear, at least as true in our day as in the fifteenth

century. From the same epistle we would recommend to the consideration

of the Pontius Pilates of our era, the numerous poets who choose none

but awfully perilous themes, and who re-enact tremendous mysteries more

confidently than if they were all Miltons, the annexed judicious

admonition:--

"Plays made from holy tales I hold unmeet;

Let some great story of a man be sung;

When as a man we God and Jesus treat,

In my poor mind we do the Godhead wrong."

And the following piece of advice, from the same letter, would not be

ill bestowed on modern shopocracy:--

"Let kings and rulers, when they gain a throne,

Show what their grandsires and great-grandsires bore;

Let trades' and towns'-folk let such things alone,

Nor fight for sable on a field of ore."

Yet he who could give this sensible counsel did by no means follow it.

Chatterton, who really could trace back his ancestors for 150 years as a

family of gravediggers, drew out for himself a pedigree which would have

astonished Garter king-at-arms, and almost abashed a Welsh or German

genealogy. He derived his descent from Sire de Chasteautonne, of the

house of Rollo, the first Duke of Normandy, who made an incursion on the

coast of Britain in the ninth century, and was driven away by Alfred the

Great! Nine shields, exhibiting the family arms, were carefully prepared

by him, and are preserved, with many other and very various inventions

by the same hand, in the British Museum; and neat engravings of those

Chatterton escutcheons are furnished by Mr Cottle, in his excellent

essays on this tortuous genius. He was equally liberal in providing a

pedigree for his friend Mr Burgham, a worthy and credulous pewterer in

his native town, convincing him, by proofs that were not conclusive at

the Herald's College, that he was descended from the De Burghams, who

possessed the estate and manor of Brougham in the reign of Edward the

Confessor, and so allying the delighted hearer with the forefathers of

an illustrious Ex-Chancellor of our day. No less a personage, too, than

Fitz-Stephen, son of Stephen Earl of Ammerle in 1095, grandson of Od,

Earl of Bloys and Lord of Holderness, was the progenitor gravely

assigned to Chatterton's relative, Mr Stephens, leather-breeches-maker

of Salisbury. Evidence of all sorts was ever ready among the treasures

in the Redcliff muniment room, the Blue-Coat boy's "Open Sesame!"

The plot of Ella may be told in a few words. Ella, a renowned English

warrior, the same who is invoked in the fine song already quoted,

marries Bertha, of whom his friend and fellow warrior, Celmond, is

secretly enamoured. On the wedding-day he is called suddenly away to

oppose a Danish force, which he defeats, but not without receiving

wounds severe enough to prevent his immediate return home. Celmond takes

advantage of this circumstance, and under pretence of conducting Bertha

to her husband, betrays her into a forest that chances to be the covert

of Hurra, the Danish general, and other of the discomfited invaders. Her

shrieks bring Hurra and his companions to her aid. They kill Celmond,

and generously resolve to restore Bertha to her lord. He in the mean

time, impatient to rejoin his bride, has contrived to get home, where,

when he hears of her ill-explained departure, believing her false, he

stabs himself. She arrives only in time to see him die.

Celmond, soliloquizing on the charms of Bertha, exclaims,--

"Ah, Bertha, why did nature frame thee fair?

Why art thou not as coarse as others are?

_But then thy soul would through thy visage shine_;

Like nut-brown cloud when by the sun made red,

So would thy spirit on thy visage spread."

At the wedding-feast, so unexpectedly interrupted by news of the Danes,

the following pretty stanzas are sung by minstrels representing a young

man and woman.

"_Man_.--Turn thee to thy shepherd swain;

Bright sun has not drunk the dew

From the flowers of yellow hue;

Turn thee, Alice, back again.

_Woman_.--No, deceiver, I will go,

Softly tripping o'er the mees,

Like the silver-footed doe

Seeking shelter in green trees.

_Man_.--See the moss-grown daisied bank

Peering in the stream below;

Here we'll sit in dewy dank,

Turn thee, Alice: do not go.

_Woman_.--I've heard erst my grandam say

That young damsels should not be,

In the balmy month of May,

With young men by the greenwood tree.

_Man_.--Sit thee, Alice, sit and hark

How the blackbird chants his note,

The goldfinch and the gray-morn lark,

Shrilling from their little throat.

_Woman_.--I hear them from each greenwood tree

Chanting out so lustily,

Telling lectures unto me,

Mischief is when you are nigh.

_Man_.--See, along the mends so green

Pièd daisies, kingcups sweet,

All we see; by none are seen;

None but sheep set here their feet.

_Woman_.--Shepherd swain, you tear my sleeve;

Out upon you! let me go;

Keep your distance, by your leave,

Till Sir Priest make one of two.

_Man_.--By our lady and her bairn,

To-morrow, soon as it is day,

I'll make thee wife, nor be forsworn,

So may I live or die for aye.

_Woman_.--What doth hinder but that now

We at once, thus hand in hand,

Unto a divine do go,

And be link'd in wedlock-band?

(Sensible woman!)

_Man_.--I agree, and thus I plight

Hand and heart and all that's mine.

Good Sir Herbert do us right,

Make us one at Cuthbert's shrine.

_Both_.--We will in a cottage live,

Happy though of no estate;

Every hour more love shall give;

We in goodness will be great."

The two Danish generals, Hurra and Magnus, warm their blood to the

fighting temperature before the battle by quarreling with and abusing

each other, like Grecian heroes. They are both bullies, but Hurra is

brave and Magnus a craven. Chatterton's sarcastic humour plays them off

admirably. The result of the struggle between the two armies is pithily

announced by one of the fugitives:--

"Fly, fly, ye Danes! Magnus the chief is slain;

The Saxons come with Ella at their head:

Fly, fly, _this is the kingdom of the dead_."

In this drama is the exquisite melody, "O, sing unto my roundelay!" with

which every one is familiar, as it is introduced into all our popular

selections from the poets.

Here is a cunning description of dawn.

"The morn begins along the east to sheen,

_Darkling the light doth on the waters play_;

The faint red flame slow creepeth o'er the green,

To chase the murkiness of night away,

Swift flies the hour that will bring out the day.

The soft dew falleth on the greening grass;

The shepherd-maiden, dighting her array,

_Scarce sees her visage in the wavy glass_."

Such extracts do not, and are not intended to, convey any notion of

Chatterton's dramatic power in this play. Mere extracts would not do

justice to that, and therefore we confine ourselves to selections of a

few out of many passages that can stand independent of plot or action,

without detriment to their effect. The same remark will not apply to the

next piece, or rather fragment. Godwin, a Tragedy, by Thomas Rowley. It

is short, and the dramatic interest weak. In the following noble chorus,

however, we recognise the genius of Chatterton:--

"When Freedom, drest in blood-stained vest,

To every knight her war-song sung,

Upon her head wild weeds were spread,

A gory broadsword by her hung.

She paced along the heath,

She heard the voice of death.

"Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue,

In vain essay'd her bosom to congeal:

She heard inflamed the shrieking voice of Woe,

And cry of owls along the sadden'd vale.

She shook the pointed spear,

On high she raised her shield;

Her foemen all appear,

And fly along the field.

"Power, with his head uplifted to the skies,

His spear a sunbeam and his shield a star,

Like two bright-burning meteors rolls his eyes,

Stamps with his iron feet, and sounds to war.

She sits upon a rock,

She bends before his spear,

She rises from the shock,

Wielding her own in air.

"Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on;

Keen wit, cross muffled, guides it to his crown;

His long sharp spear, his spreading shield are goe;

He falls, and falling rolleth thousands down."

A short prologue by Master William Canning, informs us that this tragedy

of Godwin was designed to vindicate the Kentish earl's memory from

prejudices raised against him by monkish writers, who had mistaken his

character, and accused him of ungodliness "for that he gifted not the

church." There are but three scenes in the play. In the first, Godwin

and Harold confer together on the distressed state of the nation, and

the weakness of the king, whose court is overrun with Norman favourites

to the exclusion of the English knights, and the great oppression of the

people. Harold, young and impetuous, is for instant rebellion; but the

father tries to moderate his rage, recommending patience and calm

preparation.

"_Godwin_.--What tidings from the king?

_Harold_.-- His Normans know.

_Godwin_.--What tidings of the people?

_Harold_.--Still murmuring at their fate, still to the king

They roll their troubles like a surging sea.

Has England, then, a tongue but not a sting?

Do all complain, yet will none righted be?

_Godwin_.--Await the time when God will send us aid.

_Harold_.--Must we, then, drowse away the weary hours?

I'll free my country, or I'll die in fight.

_Godwin_.--But let us wait until some season fit.

_My_ Kentishmen, _thy_ Somertons shall rise,

Their prowess warmer for the cloak of wit,

Again the argent horse shall prance in skies."

An allusion, says Chatterton, to the arms of Kent, a horse salient,

argent. As to the cloak of wit, it may possibly be preserved in

Somersetshire; but the mantle certainly was not tied as an indefeasible

heirloom over the broad shoulders of the county of Kent. No ancient

Saxons, or even Britons, ever displayed prowess so stolid as those brave

wild-wood savages of Boughton Blean, near Canterbury, who recently fell

in battle with her Majesty's 45th regiment, opposing sticks to balls and

bayonets, under their doughty leader Sir William Courtenay, Earl of

Devonshire, Knight of Malta, King of Jerusalem, and much more. And there

were other blockheads, substantial dunces, of respectable station in

East Kent, among this ignorant and ambitious madman's supporters; men

who had been at school to little purpose. Such an insurrection of

satyrs, and such a Pan, in the middle of the nineteenth century, within

earshot of the bells of Christchurch! But this by the bye.

The next poem is styled English Metamorphosis, by T. Rowley. It consists

of eleven stanzas of ten lines each, all fluent and spirited, and some

of very superior merit. It is the fable of Sabrina, Milton's "daughter

of Locrine," transliquefied to the river Severn, while her mother,

Elstrida, was changed to the ridge of stones that rises on either side

of it, Vincent's rocks at Clifton, and their enemy, the giant, was

transformed to the mountain Snowdon. This giant was a very Enceladus.

"He tore a ragged mountain from the ground;

Hurried up nodding forests to the sky:

Then with a fury that might earth astound,

To middle air he let the mountain fly,

_The flying wolves sent forth a yelling cry_."

In illustration of Elstrida's beauty,--

"The morning tinge, the rose, the lily flower,

In ever-running race on her did paint their power."

The most vulgar and outworn simile is refreshed with a grace by the

touch of Chatterton.

Of the next poem--An excellent ballad of Charity, by the good priest,

Thomas Rowley, 1454--it is clear that the young author thought highly,

by a note that he transmitted with it to the printer of the "Town and

Country Magazine," July 4, 1770, the month preceding that of his death.

Unlike too many bearers of sounding appellations, it has certainly

something more than its title to recommend it.

The octosyllabic lines--twenty only--on Redcliff Church, by T.R., show

what nice feeling Chatterton had for the delicacies of that florid

architecture:--

"The cunning handiwork so fine,

Had wellnigh dazzled mine eyne.

Quoth I, some artful fairy hand

Uprear'd this chapel in this land.

Full well I know so fine a sight,

Was never raised by mortal wight."

Of its majesty he speaks in another measure:--

"Stay, curious traveller, and pass not by

Until this festive pile astound thine eye.

Whole rocks on rocks, with iron join'd, survey;

And oaks with oaks that interfitted lie;

This mighty pile that keeps the winds at bay,

And doth the lightning and the storm defy,

That shoots aloft into the realms of day,

Shall be the record of the builder's fame for aye.

Thou see'st this mastery of a human hand,

The pride of Bristol, and the western land.

Yet is the builder's virtue much more great;

Greater than can by Rowley's pen be scann'd.

Thou see'st _the saints and kings in stony state,

As if with breath and human soul expand_.

Well may'st thou be astounded--view it well;

Go not from hence before thou see thy fill,

And learn the builder's virtues and his name.

Of this tall spire in every country tell,

And with thy tale the lazy rich men shame;

Show how the glorious Canning did excel;

How he, good man, a friend for kings became,

And glorious paved at once the way to heaven and fame."

The "Battle of Hastings" is the longest of Chatterton's poems, and the

reader who arrives at its abrupt termination will probably not grieve

that it is left unfinished. The whole contains about 1300 lines in

stanzas of ten, describing archery fights and heroic duels that are

rather tedious by their similarity, and offensive from the smell of the

shambles; and which any quick-witted stripling with the knack of rhyming

might perhaps have done as well, and less coarsely, after reading

Chapman's or Ogilby's Homer, or the fighting scenes in Spenser, the

Border Ballads, &c. But even this composition is not unconscious of the

true afflatus, such as is incommunicable by learning, not to be inhaled

by mere imitative powers, and which might be vainly sought for in

hundreds of highly elaborated prize poems.

There is nothing more interesting in British history than the subject;

and it is one which Chatterton, with all his genius, was much too young

to treat in a manner at all approaching to epic completeness. Yet a few

specimens might show that he is not deficient in the energy of the

Homeric poetry of action. But here is metal more attractive, a young

Saxon wife:--

"White as the chalky cliffs of Britain's isle,

Red as the highest-coloured Gallic wine,

Gay as all nature at the morning smile,

Those hues with pleasance on her lips combine;

Her lips more red than summer evening's skies,

Or Phoebus rising in a frosty morn;

Her breast more white than snow in fields that lies,

Or lily lambs that never have been shorn,

Swelling like bubbles in a boiling well,

Or new-burst brooklets gentling whispering in the dell,

* * * * *

"Brown as the filbert dropping from the shell,

Brown as the nappy ale at Hocktide game--

So brown the crooked rings that neatly fell

Over the neck of that all-beauteous dame.

Grey as the morn before the ruddy flame

Of Phoebus' chariot rolling through the sky;

Grey as the steel-horn'd goats Conyan made tame--

So grey appear'd her featly sparkling eye.

* * * * *

"Majestic as the grove of oaks that stood

Before the abbey built by Oswald king;

Majestic as Hibernia's holy wood,

Where saints, and souls departed, masses sing--

Such awe from her sweet look far issuing,

At once for reverence and love did call.

Sweet as the voice of thrushes in the spring,

So sweet the words that from her lips did fall.

* * * * *

"Taper as candles laid at Cuthbert's shrine,

Taper as silver chalices for wine,

So were her arms and shape.--

As skilful miners by the stones above

Can ken what metal is inlaid below,

So Kennewalcha's face, design'd for love,

The lovely image of her soul did show.

Thus was she outward form'd; the sun, her mind,

Did gild her mortal shape and all her charms refined."

The next poem, and the last of the _modern-antiques_ that it may be

worth while to note, is the story of William Canning, the illustrious

founder of Redcliff Church, and is worthy of the author and his subject.

"Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined,

Listening to hear the water glide along,

Minding how thorough the green meads it twined,

While caves responded to its muttering song,

To distant-rising Avon as it sped,

Where, among hills, the river show'd his head.

Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds,

And wreaths of alders of a pleasant scent.

"Then from the distant stream arose a maid,

Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind.

Like to the silver moon in frosty night,

The damsel did come on so blithe and bright.

No broider'd mantle of a scarlet hue,

No peakèd shoon with plaited riband gear,

No costly paraments of woaden blue;

Nought of a dress but beauty did she wear;

Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth,

And all betoken'd that her name was Truth."

The few words then spoken by this angelical lady--who unhappily favoured

Chatterton but with "angel visits, short and far between"--throw him

into a reverie on the life of William Canning, whose boyhood was more

fortunate than the poet's; for it is here reported of Canning, that

"He ate down learning with the wastlecake."

Chatterton, poor fellow, had neither fine bread to eat, nor fine

learning within the possibility of his acquisition. Yet even the worthy

Corporation of his native city will, we doubt not, be willing to allow

that the Blue-Coat Charity boy might be entitled to the praise he gives

Canning in the next couplet: that he--

"As wise as any of the Aldermen,

Had wit enough to make a Mayor at ten."

We have limited these slight notices to the Rowley Poems; and such

readers of our extracts as have been repelled from the perusal of those

poems, by the formidable array of uncouth diction and strange spelling,

may enquire what has become of the hard words. Here are long quotations,

and not an obsolete term or unfamiliar metre among them. Chatterton took

great pains to encrust his gold with verd-antique; it requires little to

remove the green rubbish from the coin. By the aid of little else than

his own glossary, "the Gode Preeste Rowleie, Aucthoure," is restored to

his true form and pressure, and is all the fairer for the renovation.

We have no space for examination of the "numerous verse," and verses

numerous, that Chatterton left undisguised by barbarous phraseology. His

modern poems, morally exceptionable as is much of the matter, are

affluent of the genius that inspired the old. African Eclogues, Elegies,

Political Satires, Amatory Triflings, Lines on the Copernican System,

the Consuliad, Lines on Happiness, _Resignation_, The Art of Puffing,

and Kew Gardens--to say nothing of his equally remarkable prose

writings--attest the versatility of his powers, and the variety of his

perception of men and manners. His knowledge of the world appears to

have been almost intuitive; for surely no youth of his years ever

displayed so much. Bristol, it is true, was, of all great towns in

England, one of the most favourable to the development of his peculiar

and complicated faculties. His passion for antiquarian lore, and his

poetical enthusiasm, found a nursing mother in a city so rich in ancient

architecture, heraldic monuments, and historical interest; his caustic

humour was amply fed from the full tide of human life, with all its

follies, in that populous mart; and his exquisite sensibility to the

beautiful and magnificent in nature, was abundantly ministered to by the

surrounding country. We are told that he had been by some odd chance

taught his alphabet, and his first lesson in "reading made easy," out of

a black-letter Bible! That accident may have had its share in forming

his taste for old-fashioned literature. But he was an attorney's clerk!

The very name of a lawyer's office seems to suggest a writ of ejectment

against all poetical influences in the brain of his indented apprentice.

Yet Chatterton's anomalous genius was in all likelihood fostered by that

dark, yet subtle atmosphere. His duty of copying precedents must have

initiated him in many of the astute wiles and twisted lines of reasoning

that lead to what is termed sharp practice, and so may have confirmed

and aided his propensities to artifice; while the mere manual operation

tutored his fingers to dexterity at quaint penmanship. He had much

leisure too; for it is recorded that his master's business seldom

occupied him more than two hours a-day. He was left to devote the rest

of his time unquestioned to all the devices of an inordinate

imagination.

After all, it is no unreasonable charity to believe, that what was

unworthy and unsound in his character, and probably in his physical

temperament, might, under more auspicious circumstances of condition and

training, have been kept in check till utterly expelled by the force of

his own maturer mind. In weighing his faults against his genius and its

better fruits, it should never be forgotten that when he terminated his

existence he was only seventeen years and nine months old.

"More wounds than nature gave he knew,

While misery's form his fancy drew

In dark ideal hues and horrors not its own."[39]

May we not even dare to hope, then, though he "perished in his pride,"

that he is still a living genius, assoiled of that foul stain of

self-murder, and a chartered spiritualized melody where want and trouble

madden not?

[39] T. Warton's "Suicide."

* * * * *

IGNACIO GUERRA AND EL SANGRADOR;

A TALE OF CIVIL WAR.

On a June evening in the year 1839, four persons were assembled in the

balcony of a pleasant little villa, some half-league from the town of

Logroño in Navarre. The site of the house in question was a narrow

valley, formed by a double range of wood-covered hills, the lower limbs

of a mountain chain that bounded the horizon some miles in rear of the

villa. The house itself was a long, low building, of which the white

stone walls had acquired the mellow tint that time and exposure to the

seasons can alone impart. A solid balcony of carved unpainted oak ran

completely round the house, its breadth preventing the rays of the sun

from entering the rooms on the ground floor, and thereby converting them

into a cool and delightful refuge from the heats of summer. The windows

of the first and only story opened upon this balcony, which, in its

turn, received shelter from a roof of yellow canes, laid side by side,

and fastened by innumerable packthreads, in the same way as Indian

matting. This sort of awning was supported by light wooden pillars,

placed at distances of five or six feet from each other, and

corresponding with the more massive columns that sustained the balcony.

At the foot of these latter, various creeping plants had taken root. A

broad-leafed vine pushed its knotty branches and curled tendrils up to

the very roof of the dwelling, and a passion-flower displayed its

mystical purple blossoms nearly at as great a height; while the small

white stars of the jasmine glittered among its narrow dark-green leaves,

and every passing breeze wafted the scent of the honeysuckle and

clematis through the open windows, in puffs of overpowering fragrance.

About two hundred yards to the right of the house, rose one of the

ranges of hills already mentioned, and on the opposite side the eye

glanced over some of those luxuriant corn-fields which form so important

a part of the riches of the fertile province of Navarre. The ground in

front of the villa was tastefully laid out as a flower garden, and,

midway between two magnificent chestnut trees, a mountain rivulet fell

into a large stone basin, and fed a fountain, from which it was spouted

twenty feet into the air, greatly to the refreshment of the surrounding

pastures.

The party that on the evening in question was enjoying the scent of the

flowers and the song of the nightingales, to which the neighbouring

trees afforded a shelter, consisted, in the first place, of Don Torribio

Olana, a wealthy proprietor of La Rioja, and owner of the country-house

that has been described. He had been long used to pass the hot months of

each year at this pleasant retreat; and it was no small calamity to him

when the civil war that broke out on the death of Ferdinand, rendered it

scarcely safe, in Navarre at least, to live out of musket-shot of a

garrison. Sometimes, however, and in spite of the advice of his friends,

who urged him to greater prudence, the worthy Riojano would mount his

easy-going round-quartered cob, and leave the town for a few hours'

rustication at his _Retiro_. After a time, finding himself unmolested

either by Carlists or by the numerous predatory bands that overran the

country, he took for companions of his excursions his daughter

Gertrudis, and an orphan niece, to whom he supplied the place of a

father. Five years of impunity were taken as a guarantee for future

safety, and Don Torribio now no longer hesitated to pass the night at

his country-house as often as he found it convenient. It was observed,

also, that many of those persons who had at first loudly blamed him for

risking his neck, and that of his daughter and niece, in order to enjoy

a purer atmosphere than could be inhaled in the dusty streets of

Logroño, at length gathered so much courage from his example, as to

accompany him out to the _Retiro_, and eat his excellent dinners, and

empty his cobweb-covered bottles, without allowing their fear of the

Carlists to diminish their thirst or disturb their digestion.

Upon this occasion, however, the only guest was a young and handsome

man, whose sunburnt countenance and military gait bespoke the soldier,

while a double stripe of gold lace on the cuff of his blue frock-coat,

marked his rank as that of lieutenant-colonel. Although not more than

thirty years of age, Don Ignacio Guerra had already attained a grade

which is often the price of as many years' service; but his rapid

promotion was so well justified by his merit and gallantry, that few

were found to complain of a preference which all felt was deserved. Both

by moral and physical qualities, he was admirably suited to the

profession he had embraced. Slender in person, but well knit and

muscular, he possessed extraordinary activity, and a capacity of

enduring great fatigue. Indulgent to those under his command, and

self-denying in all that regarded himself personally, his enthusiasm for

the cause he served was such, that during nearly two years that he had

been the accepted lover of Donna Gertrudis Olana, this was only the

second time he had left his regiment for a few days' visit to his

affianced bride. He had arrived at Logroño the preceding day from a town

lower down the Ebro, where the battalion he commanded was stationed; and

Don Torribio, with whom he was a great favourite, had lost no time in

taking him out to the _Retiro_; nor, perhaps, were the lovers sorry to

leave the noise and bustle of the town for this calm and peaceful

retreat.

It was about an hour after sunset, and Don Torribio sat dozing in an

arm-chair, with his old black dog Moro coiled up at his feet, and his

niece Teresa beside him, busying herself in the arrangement of a bouquet

of choice flowers, while at the other end of the balcony Gertrudis and

her lover were looking out upon the garden. The silence was unbroken,

save by the splashing noise of the fountain as it fell back upon the

water-lilies that covered its basin. The moon was as yet concealed

behind the high ground to the right of the house; but the sky in that

direction was lighted up by its beams, and the outline of every tree and

bush on the summit of the hill was defined and cut out, as it were,

against the clear blue background. Suddenly Gertrudis called her

companion's attention to the neighbouring mountain. "See, Ignacio!"

exclaimed she, "yonder bush on the very highest point of the hill! Could

not one almost fancy it to be a man with a gun in his hand? and that

clump of leaves on the top bough might be the _boina_ of one of those

horrid Carlists?"

While she spoke the officer ran his eye along the ridge of the hill, and

started when he caught sight of the object pointed out by Gertrudis; but

before he could reply to her remark, she was called away by her father.

At that moment the supposed bush made a sudden movement, and the long

bright barrel of a musket glittered in the moonbeams. The next instant

the figure disappeared as suddenly as though it had sunk into the earth.

The Christino colonel remained for a moment gazing on the mountain, and

then, turning away, hastened to accompany his host and the ladies, who

had received a summons to supper. On reaching the foot of the stairs,

however, instead of following them into the supper-room, he passed

through the house-door, which stood open, and, after a moment's halt in

the shade of the lattice portico, sprang forward with a light and

noiseless step, and in three or four bounds found himself under one of

the large chestnut trees that stood on either side the fountain. Keeping

within the black shadow thrown by the branches, he cast a keen and

searching glance over the garden and shrubberies, now partially lighted

up by the moon. Nothing was moving either in the garden, or as far as he

could see into the adjacent country. He was about to return to the

house, when a blow on the back of the head stretched him stunned upon

the ground. In an instant a slip-knot was drawn tight round his wrists,

and his person securely pinioned by a strong cord to the tree under

which he had been standing. A cloth was crammed into his mouth to

prevent his calling out, and the three men who had thus rapidly and

dexterously effected his capture, darted off in the direction of the

house.

Desperate were the efforts made by Don Ignacio to free himself from his

bonds, and his struggles became almost frantic, when the sound of a

scuffle in the house, followed by the piercing shrieks of women, reached

his ears. He succeeded in getting rid of the handkerchief that gagged

him, but the rope with which his arms were bound, and that had

afterwards been twined round his body and the tree, withstood his utmost

efforts. In vain did he throw himself forward with all his strength,

striking his feet furiously against the trunk of the tree, and writhing

his arms till the sharp cord cut into the very sinew. The rope appeared

rather tightened than slackened by his violence. The screams and noise

in the house continued; he was sufficiently near to hear the hoarse

voices and obscene oaths of the banditti--the prayers for mercy of their

victims. At length the shrieks became less frequent and fainter, and at

last they died away entirely.

Two hours had elapsed since Ignacio had been made prisoner, hours that

to him appeared centuries. Exhausted by the violence of his exertions,

and still more by the mental agony he had endured, his head fell forward

on his breast, a cold sweat stood upon his forehead, and had it not been

for the cords that held him up, he would have fallen to the ground. He

was roused from this state of exhaustion and despair by the noise of

approaching footsteps, and by the arrival of a dozen men, three or four

of whom carried torches. They were dressed in the sort of half uniform

worn by the Carlist _volantes_, or irregular troops; round their waists

were leathern belts filled with cartridges, and supporting bayonets and

long knives, in many instances without sheaths. Ignacio observed with a

shudder that several of the ruffians had their hands and weapons stained

with blood.

"Whom have we here?" exclaimed a sallow, evil-visaged fellow, who wore a

pair of tarnished epaulets. "Is this the _negro_ you secured at the

beginning of the affair?"

One of the men nodded assent, and the chief bandit, taking a torch,

passed it before the face of the captive officer.

"_Un militar_!" exclaimed he, observing the uniform button. "Your name

and rank?"

Receiving no reply, he stepped a little on one side, and looked to the

coat-cuff for the usual sign of grade.

"_Teniente coronel_!" cried he on seeing the double stripe.

A man stepped forward, and Ignacio, who knew that death was the best he

had to expect at the hands of these ruffians, and was observing their

proceedings in stern silence, immediately recognized a deserter from his

battalion.

"'Tis the Colonel Ignacio Guerra," said the man; "he commands the first

battalion of the Toledo regiment."

An exclamation of surprise and pleasure burst from the Carlists on

hearing the name of an officer and battalion, well known and justly

dreaded among the adherents of the Pretender. Their leader again threw

the light of the torch on the features of the Christino, and gazed at

him for the space of a minute with an expression of cruel triumph.

"Ha!" exclaimed he, "_el Coronel Guerra! He_ is worth taking to

headquarters."

"We shall have enough to do to get away ourselves, laden as we are,"

said one of the men, pointing to a number of large packages of plunder

lying on the grass hard by. "Who is to take charge of the prisoner? Not

I, for one."

A murmur among the other brigands approved this mutinous speech.

"_Cuatro tiros_," suggested a voice.

"Yes," said the leader, "to bring down the enemy's pickets upon us. They

are not a quarter of a league off. Pedro, lend me your knife. We will

see," he added with a cruel grin, "how the gallant colonel will look

cropped."

A knife-blade glanced for a moment in the torchlight as it was passed

round the head of the Christino officer.

"_Toma! chicos!_" said the savage, as he threw the ears of the unhappy

Ignacio amongst his men. A ferocious laugh from the banditti welcomed

this act of barbarous cruelty.

The leader sheathed the knife twice in his victim's breast before

restoring it to it's owner, and the Carlists, snatching up their booty,

disappeared in the direction of the mountains.

At daybreak the following morning, some peasants going to their labour

in the fields saw the body of the unfortunate officer still fastened to

the tree. They unbound him, and, perceiving some signs of life, carried

him into Logroño, where they gave the alarm. A detachment was

immediately sent out to the Retiro, but it was too late to pursue the

assassins; and all that could be done was to bring in the bodies of Don

Torribio, his daughter, and niece, who were lying dead in the

supper-room. An old groom and two women servants had shared a like fate;

the horses had been taken out of the stable, and the house ransacked of

every thing valuable.

For several weeks Ignacio Guerra remained wavering, as it were, between

life and death. At length he recovered; but his health was so much

impaired, that the surgeons forbade his again encountering the fatigues

of a campaign. Enfeebled in body, heartbroken at the horrible fate of

Gertrudis, and foreseeing the speedy termination of the war, consequent

on the concluded treaty of Bergara, he threw up his commission, and left

Spain to seek forgetfulness of his misfortunes in foreign travel.

In all French towns of any consequence, and in many whose size and

population would almost class them under the denomination of villages,

there is some favourite spot serving as an evening lounge for the

inhabitants, whither, on Sundays and fête-days especially, the belles

and _élégants_ of the place resort, to criticize each other's toilet,

and parade up and down a walk varying from one to two or three hundred

yards in extent.

The ancient city of Toulouse is of course not without its promenade,

although but poor taste has been evinced in its selection; for, while on

one side of the town soft well-trimmed lawns, cool fountains, and

magnificent avenues of elm and plane trees, are abandoned to

nursery-maids and their charges, the rendezvous of the fashionables of

the pleasant capital of Languedoc is a parched and dusty _allée_,

scantily sheltered by trees of recent growth, extending from the canal

to the open square formerly known as the Place d'Angoulême, but since

1830 re-baptized by the name of the revolutionary patriarch General

Lafayette.

It was on a Sunday evening of the month of August 1840, and the Allée

Lafayette was more than usually crowded. After a day of uncommon

sultriness, a fresh breeze had sprung up, and a little before sundown

the fair Toulousaines had deserted their darkened and artificially

cooled rooms, and flocked to the promenade. The walk was thronged with

gaily attired ladies, smirking dandies, and officers in full dress. In

the fields on the further side of the canal, a number of men of the

working-classes, happy in their respite from the toils of the week, were

singing in parts, with all the musical taste and correctness of ear for

which the inhabitants of that part of France are noted; while, on the

broad boulevard that traverses the lower end of the _allée_, a crowd of

recruits whom the conscription had recently called under the colours,

stood gazing in open-mouthed astonishment and infinite delight at some

rudely constructed booths and shows, outside of which, clown and

paillasse were rivalling each other in the broad humour of their lazzi.

Parties of students, easily recognizable by their eccentric and

exaggerated style of dress, and the loud tone of their conversation,

were seated outside the cafés and ice-rooms, or circulating under the

trees, puffing forth clouds of tobacco smoke; and on the road round the

_allée_, open carriages, smart tilburies, and dapper horsemen were

careering.

Among the various groups thronging the promenade was one, which, in Hyde

Park or on the Paris boulevards, would have attracted some notice; but

the persons composing it were of a class too common of late years in the

south of France to draw upon them any attention from the loungers. The

party in question consisted of three men, who, by their bronzed

complexions, ragged mustaches, and sullen, dogged countenances, as well

as their whole air and _tournure_, were easily distinguishable as

belonging to the exiled and disappointed faction of the Spanish

Pretender. Their threadbare costume still exhibited signs of their late

military employment, probably from a lack of means to replace it by any

other garments. The closely buttoned blue frock of one of them still had

upon its shoulders the small lace straps used to support the epaulets,

and another wore for headdress a _boina_, with its large starlike

tassels of silver cord. The third and most remarkable of the party, was

a man in the prime of life and strength, whose countenance bore the

impress of every bad passion. It was one of those faces sometimes seen

in old paintings of monkish inquisitors, on viewing which, one feels

inclined to suspect that the artist has outdone and exaggerated nature.

The expression of the cold, glassy, grey eye, and thin, pale, compressed

lips, was one of unrelenting cruelty; while the coarsely moulded chin

and jaw gave a sensual character to the lower part of the face. The scar

of a sabre-cut extended from the centre of the forehead nearly to the

upper lip, partly dividing the nose, and giving a hideously distorted

and unnatural appearance to that feature. The man's frame was bony and

powerful; the loose sheepskin jacket he wore was thrown open, and

through the imperfectly fastened shirt-front, it might be seen that his

breast was covered with a thick felt of matted hair.

It was the moment of the short twilight that in the south of France

intervenes between day and night. The Carlists had reached the upper end

of the walk, and, turning round, began to descend it again three

abreast, and with the man who has been particularly described in the

centre. On a sudden the latter stopped short, as though petrified where

he stood. His countenance, naturally sallow, became pale as ashes, and,

as if to save himself from falling, he clutched the arm of one of his

companions with a force that made him wince again, while he gazed with

distended eyeballs on a man who had halted within half-a-dozen paces of

the Spaniards. The person whose aspect produced this Medusa-like effect

upon the Carlist was a man about thirty years of age, plainly but

elegantly dressed, and of a prepossessing but somewhat sickly

countenance, the lines of which were now working under the influence of

some violent emotion. The only peculiarity in his appearance was a black

silk band which, passing under his chin, was brought up on both sides of

the head, and fastened on the crown under the hat.

"_Que tienes, Sangrador_? What ails thee, man?" enquired the Carlists of

their terror-stricken companion, addressing him by a _nom-de-guerre_

that he doubtless owed to his bloody deeds or disposition. At that

moment the stranger sprang like a bloodhound into the centre of the

group. In an instant El Sangrador was on the ground, his assailant's

knee upon his breast, and his throat compressed by two nervous hands,

which bade fair to perform the office of a bowstring on the prostrate

man. All this had passed in far less time than is required to narrate

it, and the astonishment of the Carlists at their comrade's terror and

this sudden attack, was such, that, although men of action and energy,

they were for a moment paralysed, and thought not of rescuing their

friend from the iron gripe in which he was held. Already his eyes were

bloodshot, his face purple, and his tongue protruding from his mouth,

when a gendarme came up, and aided by half-a-dozen of those agents who,

in plain clothes, half-spy and half-policeman, are to be found in every

place of public resort in France, succeeded, but not without difficulty,

in rescuing the Carlist from the fierce clutch of his foe, who clung to

him with bull-dog tenacity till they were actually drawn asunder by main

force.

"_Canalla! infame!_" shouted the stranger, as he writhed and struggled

in the hands of his guards. "By yonder villain have all my hopes in life

been blasted--an adored mistress outraged and murdered, myself tortured

and mutilated in cold blood!" And, tearing off the black fillet that

encircled his head, it was seen that his ears had been cut off. A murmur

of horror ran through the crowd which this scene had assembled. "And

shall I not have revenge?" shouted Ignacio (for he it was) in a voice

rendered shrill by furious passion. And by a violent effort he again

nearly succeeded in shaking off the men who held him.

El Sangrador, whose first terror had probably been caused by

astonishment at seeing one whom he firmly believed numbered with the

dead, had now recovered from his alarm.

"_Adios_, Don Ignacio," cried he with a sneer, as he walked away between

two gendarmes, while his enemy was hurried off in another direction.

The following day El Sangrador was sent to a depôt of Spanish emigrants

in the interior of France. On his departure, the authorities, who had

made themselves acquainted with the particulars of this dramatic

incident, released Don Ignacio from confinement; but he was informed

that no passport would be given him to quit Toulouse unless it were for

the Spanish frontier.

At the distance of a few leagues from the town of Oleron, and in one of

the wildest parts of the Pyrenees, is a difficult pass, scarcely known,

except to smugglers and izard-hunters whose hazardous avocations make

them acquainted with the most hidden recesses of these rugged and

picturesque mountains. Towards the close of the summer of 1841, this

defile was occasionally traversed by adherents of the Ex-Queen-Regent

Christina, entering Spain secretly and in small parties, to be ready to

take share in the abortive attempt subsequently made to replace the

reins of government in the hands of Ferdinand's widow. Not a few

Carlists also, weary of the monotonous inactive life they were leading

in France, prepared to join the projected insurrection; and, leaving the

towns in which a residence had been assigned them, sought to gain the

Spanish side of the Pyrenees, where they might lie _perdus_ until the

moment for active operation arrived, subsisting in the meanwhile by

brigandage and other lawless means. Owing to the negligence, either

accidental or intentional, of the French authorities, these adventurers

usually found little difficulty in reaching the line of demarcation

between the two frontiers; but it was there their troubles began, and

they had to take the greatest precaution to avoid falling into the hands

of the Spanish _carabineros_ and light troops posted along the frontier.

Among those who intended to take a share in the rebellion, Don Ignacio

Guerra occupied a prominent place. Being well known to the Spanish

Government as a devoted adherent of Christina, it would have been in

vain for him to have attempted entering Spain by one of the ordinary

roads. Repairing to Oleron, therefore, he procured himself a guide, and

one of the small but sure-footed horses of the Pyrenees, and, after a

wearisome march among the mountains, arrived about dusk at a cottage, or

rather hovel, built on a ledge of rock within half-an-hour's walk of the

Spanish frontier. Beyond this spot the road was impracticable for a

horse, and dangerous even for a pedestrian, and Don Ignacio had arranged

to send back his guide and horse and proceed on foot; in which manner,

also, it was easier to avoid falling in with the Spanish troops. The

night was fine, and having had the road minutely explained to him by his

peasant guide, Ignacio had no doubt of finding himself, in a few hours,

at a village where shelter and concealment were prepared for him.

Leaving the horse in a sort of shed that afforded shelter to two or

three pigs, the Christino officer entered the hut, followed by his guide

and by a splendid wolf-dog, an old and faithful companion of his

wanderings. It was some seconds, however, before their eyes got

sufficiently accustomed to the dark and smoky atmosphere of the place,

to distinguish the objects it contained. The smoke came from a fire of

green wood, that was smouldering under an enormous chimney, and over

which a decrepit old woman was frying _talloua_ or maize-meal cake, in

grease of a most suspicious odour. The old lady was so intent on the

preparation of this delicacy, a favourite food of the Pyrenean

mountaineers, that it was with difficulty she could be prevailed upon to

prepare something more substantial for the hungry travellers. Some

smoked goats' flesh and acid wine were at length obtained, and, after a

hasty meal, Ignacio paid his guide and resumed his perilous journey. The

moon had not yet risen--the night was dark--the paths rugged and

difficult, and the troops on the alert; to avoid falling in with an

enemy, or down a precipice, so much care and attention were necessary,

that nearly three hours had elapsed before Ignacio perceived that his

dog had not followed him from the cottage. The animal had gone into the

stable and lain down beside his master's horse, doubtless imagining, by

that sort of half-reasoning instinct which dogs possess, that, as long

as the horse was there, the rider would not be far off.

Ignacio's first impulse, on discovering the absence of his four-footed

companion, was to return to the cottage; but the risk in so doing was

extreme, and as he felt certain his guide would take care of the dog,

and that he should get it at some future day, he resolved to pursue his

journey. Meantime the night became darker and darker--thick clouds had

gathered, and hung low--there was no longer the slightest trace or

indication of a path, and the darkness preventing him from finding

certain landmarks he had been told to observe, he was obliged to walk on

nearly at hazard, and soon became aware he had lost his way. To add to

his difficulties, the low growlings of distant thunder were heard, and

some large drops of rain fell. A violent storm was evidently

approaching, and Ignacio quickened his pace in hopes of finding some

shelter before it came on, resolving to wait at all risks till daylight

before continuing his route, lest he should run, as it were, blindfolded

into the very dangers he wished to avoid. A sort of cliff or wall of

rock he had for some time had on his left hand, now suddenly ended, and

a scene burst on his view which to him was commonplace enough, but would

have appeared somewhat strange to a person unaccustomed to such sights.

The mountain, which had been steep and difficult to descend, now began

to slope more gradually as it approached nearer its base. On a sort of

shelving plateau of great extent, a number of charcoal-burners had

established themselves, and, as the most expeditious way of clearing the

ground, had set light in various places to the brushwood and furze that

clothed this part of the mountain. To prevent, however, the

conflagration from extending too far, they had previously, with their

axes, cleared rings of several feet wide around the places to which they

set fire. The bushes and furze they rooted up were thrown into the

centre, and increased the blaze. In this manner the entire mountain

side, of which several hundred acres were overlooked from the spot where

Ignacio stood, appeared dotted with brilliant fiery spots of some fifty

feet in diameter, the more distant ones assuming a lurid blood-red look,

seen through the fog and mist that had now gathered over the mountain.

Ignacio approached the nearest of the fires, lighted close to a crag

that almost overhung it, and that offered a sufficient shelter from the

rain which had begun to descend in torrents. Throwing himself on the

ground with his feet towards the flames, he endeavoured to get a little

sleep, of which he stood much in need. But it was in vain. The situation

in which he found himself suggested thoughts that he was unable to drive

away. Gradually a sort of phantasmagoria passed before his "mind's eye,"

wherein the various events of his life, which, although a short one, had

not the less been sadly eventful, were represented in vivid colours. He

thought of his childhood, spent in the sunny _vegas_ of Andalusia--of

the companions of his military studies, high-spirited free-hearted lads,

of whom some had achieved honours and fame, but by far the greater part

had died on the battle-field--the smoke of the bivouac fire, the merry

laugh of the _insouciant_ soldier--the din and excitement of the

fight--the exultation of victory, and the well-won and highly relished

pleasures of the garrison town after severe duty in the field;--the

graceful form of Gertrudis now flitted across the picture--her jetty

hair braided over her pure white forehead, the light of her swimming

"eye, that mocked her coal-black veil," flashing from under the

mantilla. Her father, with his portly figure and good-humoured

countenance, was beside her. They smiled at Ignacio, and seemed to

beckon to him. So life-like was the illusion of his fancy, he could

almost have sprung forward to join them. But again there was a change. A

large and handsome room, a well-covered table--all the appliances of

modern luxury--plate and crystal sparkling in the brilliant lights--a

happy cheerful party surrounding the board. Alas, for the tragedy played

on this stage! The hand of the spoiler was there--blood and womens'

screams, dishevelled hair and men's deep oaths, the wild and broken

accents of despair, the coarse jest and ferocious exultation of

gratified brutality. And then all was dark and gloomy as a winter's

night, and through the darkness was seen a grave-stone, shadowy and

spectral, and a man still young, but with heart crushed and hopes

blighted, lying prostrate before it, his breast heaving with convulsive

sobs of agony, until at length he rose and moved sadly away, to become

an exile and a wanderer in a foreign land.

Maddened by these reflections, Ignacio started to his feet, and was

about to rush out into the storm, and fly, he knew not whither, from his

own thoughts, when he suddenly became aware of the presence of a man

within a few yards of him. The projecting crag, under which he had

sought a shelter, extended all along one side of the fire. In one corner

an angle of the rock threw a deep shadow, in which Ignacio now stood,

and was thus enabled, without being seen himself, to observe the

new-comer, who seated himself on a block of stone close to the fire. As

he did so, the flame, which had been deadened by the rain, again burned

up brightly, and threw a strong light on the features of the stranger.

They were those of _El Sangrador_.

With stealthy pace, and trembling at every step, lest his prey should

take the alarm, and even yet escape him, Ignacio stole towards his

mortal foe. The noise of the storm, that still raged furiously, enabled

him to get within five paces of him without being heard. He then halted,

and silently cocking a pistol, remained for some time motionless as a

statue. Now that his revenge was within his grasp, he hesitated to take

it, not from any relenting weakness, but because the speedy death it was

in his power to give, appeared an inadequate punishment--a paltry

vengeance. Had he seen his enemy torn by wild horses, or broken on the

wheel, his burning thirst for revenge would hardly have been slaked; and

an easy, painless death by knife or bullet, he looked upon as a boon

rather than a punishment. An end was put to his hesitation by the

Carlist himself, who, either tormented by an evil conscience, or

oppressed by one of those unaccountable and mysterious presentiments

that sometimes warn us of impending danger, became restless, cast uneasy

glances about him, and at last, turning round, found himself face to

face with Ignacio. Almost before he recognized him, a hand was on his

collar, and the muzzle of a pistol crammed into his ear. The click of

the lock was heard, but no discharge ensued. The rain had damped the

powder. Before Ignacio could draw his other pistol, the Carlist grappled

him fiercely, and a terrible struggle commenced. Their feet soon slipped

upon the wet rock, and they fell, still grasping each other's throats,

foaming with rage, and hate, and desperation. The fire, now nearly out,

afforded little light for the contest; but as they rolled over the

smouldering embers, clouds of sparks arose, their clothes and hair were

burned, and their faces scorched by the heat. The Carlist was unarmed,

save with a clasp-knife, which, being in his pocket, was useless to him;

for had he ventured to remove one hand from the struggle even for a

moment, he would have given his antagonist a fatal advantage. At length

the contest seemed about to terminate in favour of Ignacio. He got his

enemy under, and knelt upon his breast, while, with a charred,

half-burned branch which he found at hand, he dealt furious blows upon

his head. Half-blinded by the smoke and heat, and by his own blood, the

Carlist felt the sickness of death coming over him. By a last effort he

slipped one hand, which was now at liberty, into his pocket, and

immediately withdrawing it, raised it to his mouth. His teeth grated

upon the blade of the knife as he opened it, and the next instant

Ignacio, with a long deep sob, rolled over among the ashes. The Carlist

rose painfully and with difficulty into a sitting posture, and with a

grim smile gazed upon his enemy, whose eyes were glazing, and features

settling into the rigidity of death. But the conqueror's triumph was

short-lived. A deep bark was heard, and a moment afterwards a wolf-dog,

drenched with mud and rain, leaped into the middle of the embers.

Placing his black muzzle on Ignacio's face, he gave a long deep howl,

which was succeeded by a growl like that of a lion, as he sprang upon

the Carlist.

The morning after the storm, when the charcoal-burners returned to their

fires, they found two dead bodies amidst the ashes. One of them had a

stab in his breast, which had caused his death. The other was

frightfully disfigured, and bore marks of the fangs of some savage

animal. In that wild district, the skirmishing-ground of smugglers and

_douaniers_, the mountaineers think little of such occurrences. A hole

was dug, the bodies thrown into it; and a cross, rudely cut upon the

rock, alone marks the spot where the midnight conflict took place.

* * * * *

MEMORANDUMS OF A MONTH'S TOUR IN SICILY.

LEAVING NAPLES.

STEAM-BOATIANA.

The _Francesco Primo_ was to leave the harbour at ten o'clock. Better

acquaintance with Mediterannean _pyroscaphs_, as they call themselves,

whose axle-trees turn not except when the police pleases, ought to have

led us to all the latitude of uncertainty; but when two hours and more

had elapsed with all the passengers aboard, we began to suppose some

extraordinary cause for so long a detention. A deputation is accordingly

dispatched to the captain, which brings back an abrupt reply, that he is

not going _yet_; and that it is for him and the proprietors to be

dissatisfied, who are wasting steam, while we are only losing patience.

It shortly transpired that he was under Government orders, and would not

proceed for another hour at _least_, nor even then, unless he received

permission from the minister of police. The affair now looked serious.

We must have some _carbonaro_ on board, who was, in due time, to be

arrested; and no further doubt could remain of this, when, that other

hour being past, we saw a longboat leaving shore, with two officers and

six stout rowers, who soon brought her under our bow. What can it be?

The senior epaulet rises in the boat--the second follows his

example--both are on deck; the captain, hitherto unseen, now comes

forward with alacrity, and, stretching forward _both_ his hands,

receives with profound reverence a thin, square enclosure, with an

immense seal attached to it, and retires to put it in a place of safety.

The uniforms disappear over the side of the vessel--the paddles begin to

paw the water--we swing round--and in a few seconds our prow points for

the _Sorrentine_ coast, and we are on our watery way to _Sicily_. What,

then, had detained us? It is always very provoking to have a miserable

solution of a promising mystery! We were on the exact spot for a new

edition of some "_Verbosa et grandis Epistola_" from the tyrants of the

land; and so it was, but only not _from_ Capreæ or Tiberius this time.

Yes! The actual cause of the delay of a great steam-boat, full of

passengers, for three hours, attended, among other melancholy results,

with that of exciting the choler of a new-made cardinal, was a _letter_

that the Queen of Naples, who had probably overslept herself, had

occasion to write to the king on conjugal affairs!--his majesty having

left her majesty only the day before, to show himself to his loving

subjects at Palermo. Hem! Campania _felix_! If we were known to be

inditing this unreverential passage, and its disloyal apostrophe, we

should, no doubt, be invited to leave "Campania the happy" at a day's

notice; whereas our comfort is, that this day three months it is quite

possible that it will have been read in Bengal!

We are now in the middle of the Bay of Naples; the spot from which

panoramas have been so often sketched on that noble elevation, the deck

of a lofty ship, swinging on her cables. What numberless sites of

unparallelled interest are hence visible to the newly arrived and

insatiable stranger! _Misenum, Baiæ, Puteoli, Gaurus, Vesuvius,

Herculaneum, Pompeii_! But the office of the cicerone here cannot--alas

for Britain!--be confined to the old classics, or the mere indication of

places whose very _names_ are things to _conjure with_! In America, we

converse with nature only, whose voice is in her woods and waterfalls;

but, in our threadbare Europe, all _sites_ are _historical_, and chiefly

in one sad sense--for Waterloo only brings up the rear of fields

illustrated by the wholesale destruction of mankind! In the position

which we now occupy, volumes might be written--ay, and _have been

written_.

Look at that proud, impregnable Castle of St Elmo, culminating over all

Naples! Look at those sea-washed fortresses which guard the entrance of

her harbour! The garrisons of those strong places having, in the year

1799, from the turn of public affairs, judged it expedient to capitulate

to Ferdinand and his allies, on conditions which should leave their

honour without blemish, and assure their own safety and that of the

city; and this capitulation having been solemnly accepted and ratified

by _Cardinal Ruffo, as the king's legate and plenipotentiary_, by the

late _Sir Edward Foote_, as acting commodore of the British force, and

by the representatives of _two European governments_, officially

residing in the revolutionized city, and the surrender of the forts

having accordingly taken place, it came to pass, in an evil hour, that

Lord Nelson, entering the bay as commander-_in-chief_, took upon himself

the odious responsibility of rescinding the British guarantee, and of

supporting Ferdinand, powerless but through him, in his refusal to hold

himself bound by a convention made _by his own viceroy_!--thus

delivering over the defenceless city to its own implacable sovereign.

Then came a political persecution unknown in the annals of mankind;

till, _hebetes lasso lictore secures_, even Naples could bear no more!

The noblest blood and the most distinguished talent were no protection

at the bar of a special tribunal, with a low-born monster at its head,

not surpassed in its atrocities by the revolutionary tyrants of Paris

and of Lyons. The ships shared the infamy; the venerable and noble

Caraccioli, seventy-five years of age, himself an admiral, was the first

_piaculum_! Summarily condemned by a court-martial _held on board

Nelson's flag-ship_, he was executed like a felon, and cast overboard

from a Neapolitan frigate floating on the same anchorage, and subject to

the same authority!

But Nelson's star was then in the ascendant; the presence and notorious

influence of Emma Hamilton in these frightful transactions, was

unaccountably connived at by the British nation. The officer who has

been a party to a convention, which his commander-in-chief thinks proper

not only to disapprove but to violate, must inevitably suffer in that

fame and popularity which our public services so justly cherish. And in

the state of men's passions during that memorable war, _so that it were

against the French, a successful_ commander-in-chief could do no wrong!

Yet here, probably, the matter would have rested; but when, nine years

afterwards, _Stanier Clarke_ so little appreciated the duty of a

biographer as to relate a transaction susceptible of no excuse, in terms

unjustified by the facts, and sought to render his hero _immaculate_ at

the _expense of others_, the excellent officer whose feelings and

character had been so cruelly sacrificed, felt himself compelled at last

to publish his "Vindication," judicious in every thing but _the title_.

He most properly printed the _Convention itself_ in the original words,

and with all the signatures it bore. Such works, however, even when the

affairs they refer to are _recent_, are never read but by _friends_--or

_enemies_. A late atonement was made by William IV. in conferring on Sir

Edward Foote a titular distinction, which the public heed not; but the

tables are now turned, and Europe, taught by Cuoco, Coletta, and by

Botta, the great historian of Italy, has irrevocably closed this _great

account_. The name of Foote is recorded in all their pages in terms

which, had he seen them, might well have consoled him for the past;

while the last and most popular biographer of Nelson (Southey) feels

himself compelled to admit, and the frank admission does him infinite

honour, that this is a passage of his hero's life which the muse of

history "must _record with sorrow and with shame_."

But the sea spray is dashing splendidly on our bows--we are clearing

Capri, and have, as we pass it, a fine view of that high and precipitous

rock, thinking of Tiberius and the soothsayer Thrasyllus, and of all the

monstrous scenes which those unapproachable cliffs concealed from the

indignation even of a Roman world. But twilight was already coming on,

and the city and the coast were gradually withdrawn from the

panorama--dark night came rushing over the deep, an Italian summer's

night, and yet with no stars or moon; meanwhile steadily rides our

vessel along the Calabrian waters, confident alike of her strength and

her bearings, which we soon left her to pursue, and went down to see

what the cabin and the company promised below. And thus the hours passed

away; and when the suspended lamp began to burn dimly under the

skylight, and grey morning found stealthy admittance through the cabin

windows, although we had been unable to sleep, the anticipation of all

the marvels we were to see in Sicily had answered the purpose of a

night's rest, and sent us active and alert on deck to fresh air and the

rising sun. Nor were we a moment too soon. A large flotilla of little

boats manoeuvring between two of larger size, placed to defend the space

destined for their operations, were now in the full activity of the

thunny and spada fishery; and a most picturesque rock, right over our

bow, proved to be no other than _Monte Pelegrino_, at the foot of which

lay Palermo and our breakfast--in short, after a voyage of little more

than a summer's night, we are again on _terra firma_, if that name can

be given to volcanic soils, and long before noon are actively engaged in

perambulating the streets of the Sicilian capital of the _fæcunda

Panormos_.

Among the most striking peculiarities of the interior or street views,

presented to the stranger's eye at Palermo, are its very unusually

situated convents, buildings which, even in cities, are commonly and

naturally in _retirement_; but here, in whichever of the most public

ways you walk, a number of extraordinary trellised balconies are

observed on the upper stories of almost every large house, while

business and bustle of all kinds are transacted as usual in the street

below. You may well be surprised to see the nunnery over the _Marchande

de Modes_! The unhappy inmates thus tormented by the sight and sound of

worldly activity, have not in Palermo even the solace of a garden; and

if these places of more than usual mortification have any connexion with

the world without, it is by an under-ground passage to some church in

the neighbourhood! Thither repair the poor victims of superstition to

warble _Aves_ to the Virgin behind their screens, and then back again to

their monotonous cloister. There are twenty-four nunneries in the city

of Palermo alone, each containing from thirty to sixty women, and there

are as many monasteries! With open doors like coffee-houses, full upon

the street, are placed at Palermo innumerable _consulting shops_ of so

many _lawyers_; the earliest to begin business, the last to close, you

may have the luxury of law at any hour of the day till bedtime. Nay,

your Sicilian lawyer, unlike the lazy tradesman who puts up his shutters

and sleeps from twelve to four, takes no _siesta_; his _atra janua

lilis_ is always open, and there sit the _firm_, one listening to a

client, another smoking a cigar, a third chatting with an acquaintance

over his coffee or the newspaper. Scarcely less mischievous than these

sowers of dissension, is the _barber-surgeon_, who still flourishes in

Trinacria. The bleeding arm over the peruke shop is often to be seen in

Rome and Naples; but at Palermo almost at every third house, you read

_Salassatore_ over a half-naked figure in wood or canvass, erect like

Seneca in his bath, or monumentally recumbent, the blood spouting, like

so many Tritons, from twenty orifices at once. Led by professional

curiosity, we enter one of these open doors; and, desiring the ordinary

service of the razor, and intending to ask some questions

parenthetically touching the double craft, we have scarcely occupied the

chair, when a smart youth comes up with a razor and a lancet, and

quietly asks "_Which_?" Why, surely he could not think of _bleeding_ us

without a warrant for our needing it. "_Eperchè? Adesso vi le dîrò

subito_--Why not? I'll tell you whether you want it without a

doctor,"--feeling for our pulse. "_Non c'è male_--not so much amiss,"

pursued the functionary; "but a few ounces bleeding would do you _no

harm_! Your hand is hot, it must be _several months_ since you were last

bled!" "A year." "Too long: you should be bled, at your age, at least

_twice a-year_ if you would keep your health!" "What amount of depletion

did he recommend?" "_Depende--di sei a dieci oncie_," at which portion

of the dialogue our mouth was shut to all further interrogations by a

copious supply of soap-suds, and now he became the tonsor only, and

declares against the mode in which we have our hair cut: "They have cut

your hair, Signor, _à condannato_--nobody adopts the toilette of the

guillotine now; it should have been left to grow in front _à la Plutus_,

or have been long at the sides _à la Nazarène_, which is the mode most

of our Sicilian gentlemen prefer." We were about to rise, wash, and

depart, but an impediment is offered by the artist. "_Non l'ho_

raffinato _ancora, Signor, bisogna_ raffinarlo _un poco_!" and before we

could arrive at the occult meaning of _raffinare_, his fingers were

exploring very technically and very disagreeably the whole surface over

which his razor had travelled, and a number of supplementary scrapings

were only stopped by an impatient _basta_ of the victim. _Still_ he was

unwilling to part with us. _Would_ we like, now that we are on the spot,

to _lose a few ounces of blood_ before he takes a stranger in hand, (who

is waiting for the one or other operation;) and, as we most positively

declined, he turned to the latter to ask him whether he was come for his

"_piccolo salassio di sei oncie_." "_Gia_!" said Signor Antonio, taking

off his coat, and sitting down with as much _sangfroid_ as if he were

going to take his breakfast. "Can you shave _me_?" asks a third party,

standing at the door. "_Adesso_," after I have _bled_ this gentleman.

Such are all the _interiors_ where _Salassatore_ is written over the

door; they bleed and they shave indifferently, and doing either, talk of

the last _take_ of _thunny_, the _opera_ that has been or is to be, and

the meagre skimmings of their permitted newspaper, _which_ begins

probably with the advertisement of a church ceremony, and ends always

with a charade--for our subscribers!!

CHURCHES.

The clergy are wealthy, the bishop's salary is 18,000 scudi, and many of

the convents are very opulent; but there is scarcely one of the churches

which you care to visit twice. Most of them are disgraced by vulgar

ornaments, in which respect they surpass even the worst specimens at

Naples! Gilt stucco, cut and stamped into flowery compartments, shows

off like a huge twelfth cake! but the _Matrice_ or _Duomo_, and the

Saracenic _Chapel of the Palazzo Reale_, and the cathedral of

_Monreale_, four miles beyond the town, are noble exceptions; these in

their several ways are all interesting, both within and without. The old

Siculo-Norman archway of _Monreale_, and its fine bronze gates crusted

with a beautiful hard polished _coin-like patina_, would repay the

excursion, even were the interior less fine. Here we have columns from

whose high architraves the Gothic arch springs vigorously; walls

perfectly covered with old Byzantine mosaics; a roof of marvellous

lightness, and almost modern elegance; still the critic, who is bound by

_métier_ to find fault with violated canons, will, we must own, be at no

loss for a text in the church of Monreale--a building which is, however,

of sufficient importance in ecclesiastical architecture to have been

designed, measured, and engraved, in whole and in part, in a splendid

volume, published in folio, by the Duke of Serra di Falco.

VISIT TO THE GARDEN OF THE DUKE OF SERRA DI FALCO, NEAR PALERMO.

After a delicious half hour's drive through country lanes hedged with

cactus, aloes, and pomegranates, we find ourselves in front of a small

villa distant about two miles from the sea. As to the house, many an

English gentleman, in very moderate circumstances, has a far better; but

on passing the archway of this Sicilian country-box into its garden, two

trees, which must be astonished at finding themselves out of

Brazil--trees of surpassing beauty--are seen on a crimson carpet of

their own fallen petals, mixed with a copious effusion of their seeds,

like coral. At the northern extremity of Italy (Turin) this _Erythinia

corallodendron_ is only a small stunted shrub; nor is it much bigger at

Naples, where it grows under cover. Six years in the _open air_ have in

Sicily _produced_ the tree before you: it is, in fact, larger than most

of our fruit-bearers. We next recognise an agreeable acquaintance,

formed two years ago, in the _Neapolis Japonicus_; it bears a delicate

fruit, of the size of a plum, whose yellow, freckled skin contains such

a nectar-like juice that the pine-apple itself scarcely excels it. Our

fellow-passenger, the infallible voice of a new-made cardinal of the

warlike name of Schwarzenburg, who tasted it here, as he told us, for

the first time, has already pronounced a similar opinion, and no

dissentients being heard, the Japan medlar passed with acclamation. The

_Buggibellia spectabilis_ of New Holland, calls you to look at his pink

_blossoms_, which are no other than his leaves in masquerade. We grub

up, on the gardener's hint and permission, some of the _Cameris

humilis_, to whose filamentous radicles are attached certain little

grains, of great sweetness and flavour. The banana-tree, "_Musa

paradisaica_," which, cooped in our low hot-houses at home, breaks its

neck, and might well break its heart, as its annual growth is resisted

by the inexorable glass dome, is here no prisoner but an acclimated

denizen of sun and air. The _Cactus Opuntiæ_, or Indian fig, is here for

vulgar tastes; and the _Cactus cochinellifera_ for the Luculluses of the

day, who could afford to pay for its rearing. The small _sneezing

plant_, a vegetable smelling-bottle, is still employed in headach by the

common people of Sicily, who bruise the leaves and sniff their pungency:

its vulgar name, _malupertusu_, is the corruption of Marum del Cortuso,

as we find it in the ancient herbal of Durante. The _Ferula communis_ or

_Saracinisca_, a legacy left to the Sicilian pedagogues by their eastern

lords, is sold in fagots at the green-grocers, and fulfils the

scholastic office of _birch_; and, being more elastic, must be pleasant

to _flog with_. We recommend it to _head masters_. The _sumac_, _Rhus

coriaria_, is not only to be seen here, but every where else in Sicily;

and they say there is a daily exportation of one thousand sacks of its

ground leaves. The ancients knew it well, and employed it for giving a

flavour to their meat, as they do now in Nubia and Egypt, according to

Durante, who deems its many virtues deserving of Latin verse. We smell

pepper!--a graceful shrub, whose slender twigs stand pencilled out like

sea-weed spread upon paper; and the _Schinus mollis_, a leaf of which we

have gathered ignorantly, is the source of the smell. We strew some

leaves on the basin of a neighbouring fountain, and amuse ourselves by

seeing them swim about as if they were bewitched, parting at the same

time with a whitish fluid, which, spreading on the surface of the water,

gives it an iridescent hue. The _Fuchsia arborescens_ of Japan flowers

here, they say, every month, just as we see him in all his pink

luxuriance, and makes himself quite at home; and here is that little

blue vegetable butterfly, the _Polygala_! Who can overlook his _winged_

petals, peeping out of their myrtle-looking bower? Then the

_geraniums_!--not potted, as in Covent-Garden, or the _Marché aux

Fleurs_, but forming vast parti-coloured _hedgerows_, giving to every

pathway its own _particular flower and perfume_; so that a connoisseur

might be taken blindfold and declare where each kind grew. _Hedges of

geranium seven feet high_! Think of that, ye _Dicksons_ and

nursery-ground men about _Brompton_ and the _King's Road_! The stalks a

mass of real ligneous matter, fit for the turner's lathe if it were but

hard enough. A small mound enables us to look about us more at large;

and now we discern the stately _bamboo_, thicker than your arm, and tall

as a small mast; and the _sugar-cane_, formerly cultivated for his

juice, but now looking as if he were ill-used and neglected. His

biography (but as it is not _auto_-biography, and written with his own

_reed_, there may be some mistake) is remarkable. Soon after the

annexation of Sicily to Spain in 1420, he was carried from Syracuse into

Spanish captivity; he then escaped to Madeira and the Canaries, and at

length saved himself in the West Indies. The _pistachia_ is also here,

with its five-partite sessile leaf, like a dwarf walnut; the capsule

holding the nut containing at present only a white germ, which it will

require four months more to bring to nutty maturity. The _manna_-tree is

very like an _alder_ in its general character, but thicker in its stem,

and bears the cicatrices of last year's _ill treatment_; its wounds,

however, will not bleed afresh now; but towards August the _salassatore_

of trees will run his steel into its limbs, taking care to place under

the bleeding orifices leaves from the _cactus_ hedge hard by to serve as

recipients, and drain its juices till it faints.

That a _leaf_ might not be _wanting_ to record these vegetable

treasures, the pagoda-topped _papyrus_ nodded to us gracefully, and

offered its services; while, to finish the picture, Angola goats are

browsing amid the green and yellow ribbed _agaves_; and the beautiful

blue sea peeps in through gaps of the wall of _cactus_, whose green

stems are now all fringed with yellow blossoms. Leaving the flower

garden, we enter a labyrinth, and arrive at a small hut, with a closed

door, upon the threshold of which we have scarcely pressed, when the

wicket flies open, and a big brown friar, with long beard and sandals,

starts up in act to frighten us, which he succeeds in doing. This

automaton _Schedoni_ might really well produce abortion, and would not

care if he did: he cannot, we suppose, be placed there as a lawful

instrument of relief, for all the _donzelle_ of Palermo must be _aware_

of, and be used to him. This, however, is thought so good a joke, that

it is repeated with variations; for on releasing another spring a

similar contrivance introduces us to another monk of the same convent,

who is reading a huge tome on the lives of the saints: resenting the

interruption, he raises his head, and fixes his eyes on the intruder, at

the same time beckoning to him with his hand, and intimating that if he

will do him the favour to come a little nearer, he will knock him down

with the folio, as Johnson did Osborn the bookseller.

Another surprise is--but really these are surprising enough--and we came

here to see vegetable rarities, and not the tricks of an overgrown

toyshop.

THE THUNNY FISHERY.

[Greek: Tan baitan apodys eis chymaia taena haleymai,

Hopeth tos Oynnos schopiazeiai 'Olpis o' gripeys.]--THEOC.

The thunny fishery, if not as exciting as that of the whale, is far from

uninteresting to the uninitiated. We were rowing about in want of an

object, when our boatmen proposed to take us to see this animating

species of labour; and off we went to a spot about two miles from shore,

where we came upon a little flotilla of boats, all occupied in the

common pursuit. A large quantity of floating cork announced our arrival

on the fishing ground; then came long lines of buoys, to which the

drop-nets were attached, and at last we drew alongside a small boat,

hailing which, we learn that the net is already half-drawn, and that _la

pipa_ (the sword-fish) is _in_ it. Now, we had long wanted to see a live

sword-fish, but there was no need to stimulate our rowers, who appeared

equally eager that we should assist at the fun, and made great exertions

to reach the spot in time. "_Questa_," says our guide, showing the

boundary of the space circumscribed by walls of net; "_questa è la

camera della morte_, (this is the chamber of death,) _piano, piano_, (or

we shall shoot ahead.") The space thus designated lay between two long

barges, one of which was fixed by anchor, and had few people on board,

while the other was crowded with naked limbs, and fine heads in Phrygian

bonnets, academy figures every man of them. What symmetry of form! what

jet black beard and mustache! what dark flashing eyes! what noses

without reproach! All were in the various combinations of action which

their position demanded, hauling away at what seemed to our impatience

an endless net; by the shortening of which, however, as their boat

received it, layer upon layer, fold upon fold, coil upon coil, they were

slowly bringing up the reticulated wall. As the place of captivity came

nearer, every body was intensely anxious to get a first view of the

fish; and many other boats were coming up alongside of ours, which

fortunately lay right over the meshes of the prison, which was becoming

every second more and more restricted in size. At length some of us

obtained a first view of the _spada_ and his long sword, and testified

our delight with vociferation. The fish, meanwhile, who hates publicity,

backs off, and would back out, to the opposite end of the net, where,

still finding himself an object of unpleasant remark, he tries by

violence to escape sideways; but that is _no go_ even for a sword-fish,

for a sword is his which cannot cut cords, and he soon finds he can make

nothing of it. Smaller and smaller, meanwhile, is becoming the condemned

hold, and greater and greater the perturbation within. The captive fish

begins to swim round and round, and to watch a new opportunity, but it

is too late!--too many are on the look-out for him! Every man gets ready

his hooked pole, and there is more tightening of the tackle! The

terrified fish now rises to the surface, as it were to reconnoitre, and

then down he dives with a lash of his tail, which sends buckets of water

into the boat of the assailants. This dive, of course, only carries him

to the false bottom of the net, and come up presently he must! Every eye

now looks _fishy_, and every man's hand is armed for the first blow. One

tall athletic fellow takes aim, and misses; another is more successful,

and hits. Stunned by the blow, the poor fish flounders on this side and

on that, and the water is discoloured by his blood! One, two, three

pointed poles at once, are again in his flank; and now he rushes about

like a rounded lion, brandishing his tail, and dashing up whirlpools of

water. More Blows! more blood! He rushes desperately at the net, and

running his long snout into the meshes, is hopelessly entangled. It is

all over with him! Countless wounds follow, till he turns over on his

side, and is handed up lifeless into the boat.

"There," says one, "goes fifteen scudi's worth, and no harm done to _the

net_." "Little enough, too; but he is worth two thunny, anyhow," says

another. "Ay! and gives more _sport_," exclaims a third. Such piscatory

eclogue fell upon our ear, when our guide announced to us that we had

now seen every thing. The excitement over, we sat down in our boat to

make a note of what we have written, while the boatmen clave the

phosphorescent water homewards, and landed us neatly at sunset, with

their oars dripping luminous drops at every stroke, in the beautiful

harbour of Palermo.

Some days after we were still more fortunate; we had observed the scouts

with a white hood over their boat, _looking keenly down_ (_vide_ our

quotation from Theocritus) into the deep blue sea, and watching with

all-eyed attention for the apparition of some giant shadow which should

pass athwart the abyss, and give the signal for a new chase, while their

comrades were hauling in an immense miscellaneous _take_ of fish, the

acquisition of the morning. We shot the outpost, (placed to prevent

larger vessels from entering the fishing preserves and injuring the

nets,) and remarked our boatmen uncovering to a small _Madonna_ railed

in alongside. We were just in time on this occasion to see the water

enclosed in the _camera della morte_, already all alive with fish; for a

shoal of _palamide_, and of immense _pesce di moro_, filled the

reticulated chamber. They darted here and there as the net was raising,

and splashed so furiously about, that the whole water became one lather;

meanwhile, the men who had been singing gaily, now prepared their

landing-nets, shouting in a way which certainly _did_ seem to increase

the terror of their prisoners, who redoubled their efforts to escape.

The rich hues of the _palamide_, in shape and colour not unlike our

mackerel, but with longitudinal, in place of transverse, green bands,

were beautiful objects as they were raised all iridescent in their

freshness out of the water, and transferred to the side boat. We also

noticed in the net one or two immense fish, in shape like rounded

parallelograms, with tough shagreen hides, goggle eyes, and two immense

leathery fins placed at the lower part of the abdomen. They kept

flapping these valves up and down, but not offering to strike, though

lugged out by a hook. The haul was a good one, each fish worth a ducat;

and had they, in fact, been at this price converted into coin at once,

the money would have made no mean show in the bottom of the net. The

treacherous _camera della morte_ was emptied quickly, and in one minute

more, down it went again into the depths below.

We should have mentioned a singular practice of the fishermen of the

present day in Sicily, to _pat_ the thunny while he is in the net, as

you pat a horse or dog: They say it makes him docile. This done, they

put their legs across his back, and _ride_ him round the net room, an

experiment few would practise on the dolphin's back, at least in these

days; yet Aulus Gellius relates that there was a dolphin who used to

delight in carrying children on his back through the water, swimming out

to sea with them, and then putting them safe on shore! Now, _but for the

coins_, taking the above custom into consideration, one might have

supposed the ancients' _delphinus_ to have been the modern _thunny_.

THE FISH MARKET.

"Dragged through the mire, and bleeding from the hock," lay a continuous

mass of slaughtered thunny, mouths wide open, bloody sockets, from which

the eyes had been torn to make lamp-oil, gills ripped off to be eaten

fresh, and roes in baskets by their sides. There was also a quantity of

a fish of dirty white belly and dusky back, the _alalonga_, and two huge

_dolphins_, with skins full of lamp-oil. This really ugly creature looks

far better in the _delphin_ title-pages, with his lamp and his "_alere

flammam_" on clean paper, than on the stall; but his very best

appearance is on a fine Sicilian coin, with _Arion on his back_. The

snouts of four large sword-fish were also conspicuous; and there was

thunny enough for all the world: some of the supply, however, was to be

hawked about the streets, in order to which cords are placed under the

belly of a thunny of fifteen cwt., and off he goes slung on a pole, with

a drummer before and a drummer behind, to disturb every street and alley

in Palermo till he is got rid of; not that the stationary market is

quiet; for the noise made in selling the mutest of all animals is in all

countries really remarkable; but who shall do justice to a _Sicilian_

Billingsgate at _mezzogiorno_! "_Trenta sei, trenta sei_," bawls out the

Padrone, cleaving a fish in twain with one stroke of an immense chopper

kept for the purpose. "_Trenta sei, trenta sei_," repeat the two

journeymen accomplices, one counting it on his fingers to secure

accuracy and telegraph the information to distant purchasers, or such as

cannot _hear_ in the noise; another holds up a slice as a specimen;

three fellows at our elbow are roaring "_tutti vivi, tutta vivi_," "_a

sedici, a sedici_." The man of _whitings_, and even he of _sardines_,

have a voice and a figure of their own. As you approach each stall, the

noisy salesmen suspend their voices, and enquire, in gentler accents, if

you intend to buy; if you do not, like the cicada their stunning sound

returns as soon as you are past. We have hinted that the thunny,

"_Integer et cadavere toto_," does not look handsome: vastly less

attractive is he when mutilated. Big as an elephant's thigh, and with

flesh like some black-blooded bullock of ocean breed, his unsavoury meat

attracts a most repulsive assemblage, not only of customers, but of

flies and wasps, which no flapping will keep off from his grumous liver.

The _sword-fish_ cuts up into large bloodless slices, which look on the

stall like so many fillets of very white veal, and might pass for such,

but that the head and shoulders are fixed upon a long lance, high above

the stall, to inform the uninitiated that the delicate looking meat in

question was fed in the pastures of the deep. The _price_ of thunny, a

staple commodity and object of extensive Sicilian commerce, varies

considerably with the supply; as to the demand, it never ceases. During

our stay in Palermo, a whole fish would fetch about eight _scudi_, and

his retail price was about twopence _per English pound_. Think of paying

three or four _francs_ for less than half a pound _sott 'olio_ in Paris.

The supply seems very constant during the season, which, on the Palermo

side of the island, is from May to July, and continues a month later

along the _Messina_ coast; after which, as the fish cease to be seen, it

is presumed here that they have sailed to the African coast. The flesh

of the _spada_ fish is generally double in market price to that of the

thunny, selling during the greater part of June at about fourpence

a-pound. Every thunny is weighed upon landing, and a high tax paid upon

it to the king, who, in consideration thereof, charges his Sicilian

subjects no duty for gunpowder or salt. The fixed fisheries for thunny,

round the Sicilian coast, are upwards of a dozen, the most famous being

that of Messina. At Palermo, however, they sometimes take an immense

strike of several hundred in one expedition. The average weight of a

full grown thunny, is from 1000 to 1200 pounds; of course the men with

poles who land him, can carry him but a little way, and he reaches the

market by relays. Every bit of him is eaten, except his bones and his

eyes, and even these yield a quantity of oil.

The spada, too, is pickled down to his bones--he is in great request for

the hotels, and his eyes, duly salted, are considered a sort of luxury;

in some places these are the perquisite of the fishermen, yielded by

their employers, who farm the fisheries, and having satisfied the king,

make what terms they can with the subject.

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL POLICY--RUSSIA.

From the brief review, in our last Number, of Spain, her commercial

policy, her economical resources, her fiscal rigours, her financial

embarrassments, these facts may be said to have been developed:--In the

first place, that theoretically--that is, so far as legislation--Spain

is the land of restrictions and prohibitions; and that the principle of

protection in behalf, not of nascent, but of comparatively ancient and

still unestablished interests, is recognized, and carried out in the

most latitudinarian sense of absolute interdict or extravagant impost.

Secondly, that under such a system, Spain has continued the exceptional

case of a non or scarcely progressing European state; that the

maintenance and enhancement of fiscal rigours and manufacturing

monopoly, jealously fenced round with a legislative wall of prohibition

and restriction, has neither advanced the prosperity of the quarter of a

million of people in Catalonia, Valencia, and Biscay, in whose exclusive

behalf the great and enduring interests of the remaining thirteen

millions and upwards of the population have been postponed or

sacrificed--nor contributed to strengthen the financial resources of the

government, as proved by the prostrate position and prospects of a

bankrupt and beggared exchequer; that, as the necessary and inevitable

consequence, the progress of agriculture, the ascendant interest of

all-powerful communities and vast territorially endowed states--of

Spain, the almost one only interest and element of vitality, economical

and political--has been impeded, and continues to be discouraged; that

the march of internal improvements is checked or stunted, when not

absolutely stayed; finally, that public morals--the social health of a

great people, inheritors of glorious antecedents, of an historic renown

for those qualities of a high order, the deep-seated sentiment of

personal, as of national honour and dignity, the integrity, fidelity,

and gallantry, which more loftily spurn contaminating approximation with

action springing out of base, sordid, and degrading motives and

associations--have been sapped and corrupted by the debasing influences

of that gigantic system of organized illicit trade which covers Spain

with hordes of _contrabandistas_, more numerous and daring than the

bands of _aduaneros_ and the armies of regulars whom they set at

defiance, and infests the coast of Spain with fleets of smuggling craft,

which all the _guardas costas_, with the ancient armada of Spain, were

it in existence, would be powerless to annihilate. And all this fine

nation, of warm and generous temperament, of naturally noble and

virtuous aspirations, thus desperately to be dismantled of its

once-proud attributes, and demoralized in its character; its exhaustless

riches of soil and climate to be wantonly wasted--per force of false

legislation to be left uncultured--and for why? Shades of the

illustrious Gabarrus and Jovellanos, why? Why, to enable some half dozen

_fabricantes_ of Barcelona to keep less than half-a-dozen steam-engines

at work, which shall turn some few thousands of spindles, spinning and

twisting some few millions of pounds of yarn, by which, after nearly

three quarters of a century that the cotton manufacture has been

planted, "swathed, rocked, and dandled" with legislative fondness into a

rickety nursling, some fifty millions of yards of cotton cloths are said

to be painfully brought forth in the year; the value of which may

probably be equal to the same or a larger quantity of French cottons

introduced by contraband, and consumed in the provinces of Catalonia and

Arragon themselves--the first being sole seat of the cotton manufacture

for all Spain. And for this deplorable consummation, the superabundant

harvests of the waving fields, the luscious floods of the vineyards, the

full flowing yield of the olive groves of Spain--of the wine, the oil,

and the corn, of which nature is more bountiful than in Egypt of

old--the produce and the wealth of the millions, (which, permitted,

would exchange advantageously for foreign products, and, bye all the

value, add to the store of national wealth, and create the means of

reproduction,) are left to run waste and absolutely perish on the

ground, as not worth the cost of transport to markets without demand.

"The production of this soil," observes the Ayuntamiento of Malaga, in

their eloquent _Exposicion_ to the Cortes cited in our last Number,

after referring to their own port and province, in whose elaboration

thousands and thousands of hands are employed, millions and millions of

capital invested, "are consumed, if not in totality, at least with close

approximation, in England;" and after enumerating the wines, oil,

raisins, grapes, oranges, lemons, and almonds, as products so consumed

in this country--"We have active and formidable rivals in France,

Germany, Italy, Portugal, Turkey, the Greek Archipelago, and other

countries. We shall say nothing of the wools, corn and other fruits of

Spain, so important, and some so depressed in England by foreign

competition with those of this province. If the treaties of commerce of

England with Italy and Turkey are carried into effect, the exportation

of our oils and dried fruits will receive its death warrant--_queda

herida demuerte_. France, Germany, and Portugal, accepting favourably

the idea of the British Government, will cause our wines to disappear

from the market; their consumption is already very limited, inasmuch as

the excessive duty, to one-third the amount of which the value of the

wine does not reach, at the mouth of the Thames, prevents the sale of

the inferior dry wines. The same excessive duty tends to diminish the

consumption of our fruits from year to year. Our oil has alone been able

to find vent by favour of the double duty imposed till now upon

Sicilian, superior to ours in quality. But the English speculators are

already shy of purchasing, in the expectation of an assimilation of

duties on oils of whatever origin." The Ayuntamiento proceeds to urge

the necessity of a "beneficial compensation" to British manufactures in

the tariff of Spain, without which, "the flattering perspective" of

prosperous progress for the industry and agriculture of the Andalusias

will be destroyed, and that those vast, rich, and fertile provinces will

become a desolate desert. "The admission or prohibition of foreign woven

cottons," says the _Exposicion_, "is for Malaga and its province of

vital importance under two aspects--of morality and commerce. Until now

we have endured the terrible consequences of prohibition. The exorbitant

gain which it supports is the germ of all the crimes perpetrated in our

country. The man who carries a weapon, who uses it and sheds the blood

of an agent of the law in the defence of his illegally acquired goods,

will not hesitate in shedding the blood of a fellow citizen who may

stand in the way of his desires. And hence the frequent assassinations.

He who with gold seduces others for the increase of his own property and

for antisocial purposes, does not scruple, when fortune is adverse, to

possess himself by violence of the gold of the honest husbandman, or

peaceful trader: from hence the constant robberies in the less

frequented places; from hence the general abuse of carrying prohibited

arms of all sorts, and using them criminally against any one on the

least provocation, already accustomed to use them against the

Government. Who shall venture to enumerate the assassinations, the

robberies, the ruined families, the misfortunes of all kinds, which,

directly and indirectly, spring from contraband trade?"